


The Betting Pool

by Sixthlight



Series: Mostly Ceremonial [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Crack, Gen, Gossip, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks after the rumour went around the Met like wildfire, Sahra Guleed finally got the chance to corner Peter Grant and ask him whether it was true that he’d volunteered to marry DCI Nightingale for what DCI Seawoll had referred to as “fucking magic ceremony reasons”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Betting Pool

**Author's Note:**

> In the same entirely crack-based universe as [Mostly Ceremonial](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3187898), obviously. Apparently I wasn't quite done with this piece of insanity yet. Full credit to stardust_rain for how some of the bets were placed (especially Lesley's.)

Two weeks after the rumour went around the Met like wildfire – at least those parts of the Met that had any sort of regular dealings with the Special Assessment Unit – DI Stephanopoulos showed up at Sahra’s desk.

“So how’d the betting pool work out for Grant and Nightingale?”

“Still sorting it out,” Sahra admitted. “Arranged marriage wasn’t anyone’s bet. You and Kumar at the BTP were down for after Grant finishes his apprenticeship or whatever it is – but this is work-related. DCI Seawoll definitely loses, he had never. Actually what he said was _when hell freezes over_ , but that’s a bit hard to confirm, so I’m going to count it as ‘never’. And it depends whether people had money on them sleeping together or getting together – what does this count as?”

“No idea,” Stephanopoulos admitted. “All I know is that they got married for, and I too quote Alexander here, ‘fucking magic ceremony reasons’. And god only knows what that means, except that he’s so bothered he’s willing to be heard using the m-word. Nightingale’s going around telling everyone it’s mostly ceremonial, also unquote, and Grant’s been exiting any room I enter as fast as humanly possible. But if you want a go at him, now’s your chance – he’s in the canteen.”

“I might just do that,” Sahra said, standing up. “What do you reckon, by the way – mostly ceremonial, or mostly not?”

Stephanopoulos snorted. “Are you kidding? They both have that I-just-got-laid look all over their faces. But try getting either of them to admit it.”

“I’m a detective, boss,” Sahra said. “Getting people to admit stuff is what I _do_.”

*

Grant had come down to Belgravia to interview someone they were holding. Sahra found him, as promised, in the canteen, hidden as much as possible in a corner - personally, she was surprised he hadn't scarpered as soon as he was done. He was going over his notebook and making dubious faces at the coffee. A safer strategy than drinking it, that was for certain.

The first thing she noticed when she swung herself into the chair opposite – boxing him into the corner nicely - was that he was wearing a wedding ring. Well, _that_ was a piece of evidence right there. As soon as he saw her he'd closed the notebook like he suddenly had somewhere to be, but there was nowhere for him to go. 

“So I hear congratulations are in order,” Sahra prompted.

“Long story, but…yes,” Grant said. “ _Long_ story.”

“For you and DCI Nightingale,” Sahra pointed out.

“Basically. Yes.”

“What’s that like?”

Grant gave this some consideration. “Honestly? Terrifyingly the same. Except it cuts down on my dating prospects, obviously.”

“It cuts down on your dating prospects,” Sahra repeated. “Are you kidding me?”

“Um, because it’s generally not considered okay to date other people when you’re married?” Grant said, like he was offended. And that was kind of cute and kind of horrifying, how seriously he appeared to take it.

“So were you…” Sahra said, figuring she’d start out directly. “You know. Already?”

“What? _No_ ,” Grant replied. “Because he’s _my governor_.”

“But now he’s your husband.”

“As well. I guess. Yeah.” Now he just sounded exaggeratedly patient. “Because we got married. As I think we established. Did you actually have something you wanted to talk about or are you just here for the sordid gossip?”

“So did you, after?” Sahra didn’t actually care that much herself, because she couldn't think of anything that was less her business, but she hadn’t been running a pool on Grant and Nightingale for two years now to have it descend into an argument.

There was a definite flush creeping up from Grant’s collar, and he didn’t say anything. So that was a yes, then.

“Why do you even care?” he asked, a little plaintively.

“Had to figure out whether to pay out on the pool,” she told him cheerfully. “It was some people’s opinion that it didn’t count otherwise.”

“That was _you_ , with the betting?” He looked a little betrayed. A sad lack of suspicion, that, for a copper. “Has the murder rate in London dropped that much? Do you lot really have that little to do with your time?”

“We’re efficient multitaskers,” Sahra told him. “My personal bet was for next year sometime, by the way.”

He was so outraged by this he forgot himself and took a sip of coffee to avoid answering that directly. Then promptly regretted it, judging by his expression. “Look – seriously. I’ve been hearing about this from everyone I’ve talked to for the last two weeks and it’s getting a bit exhausting. I didn’t even get the chance to tell my parents in person. You don’t want to _know_ about the bollocking I got from my mum.”

Sahra imagined the bollocking she’d be getting from _her_ mum if she showed up one day married to Stephanopoulos for obscure job-related reasons – not that there was any fear of that, Stephanopoulos was very happily married – and was duly impressed. And sort of terrified, second-hand. “No, I reckon I don’t. How did they hear about it?”

“I don’t know,” Grant said glumly. “How do they ever hear about anything, parents? All I know is she called me up three days later and yelled at me for an hour.”

Sahra could just imagine. “Ouch.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he went on. “She yelled at me _because I didn’t invite her_.”

Okay, that was a bit weird. That would be the _last_ thing Sahra’s mum would be yelling at her about.  “But you didn’t have time to invite anyone – I thought it was, like, a last-minute emergency thing.”

“It was, and I didn’t,” Grant replied. “But yeah. Not because I got married to a white guy who also happens to be my boss and don’t even _ask_ how much older than me he is. Not because I volunteered to get married for a job thing. Because I didn’t invite her to the wedding.”

“Wait, how much older than you _is_ he?” Sahra frowned. “Like, fifteen years? Twenty, tops. Isn’t that about the same as your parents?”

Grant looked like he was regretting saying that, too. “It’s...um, you know? Never mind. My point is. She wasn’t that surprised. You’ve been running a _betting pool_. People here have been putting bets on it. People who _aren’t_ here have been putting bets in it.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Sahra added. “I got one from a Zach Palmer, but I hear that means it was really from Lesley May. Somehow. That was on you being in love with Nightingale and not having any idea about it yourself. I’m not sure whether to pay that one out or not, honestly.”

“Which is exactly my point,” Grant pushed on. “Look, can you just tell me _why_ everyone had this idea? Because we sure as hell didn’t!”

“What did you say to me just now?” she asked, because some habits were hard to break and answering questions with questions was one of them when you were police. But it was her point, anyway.

“Uh…that my mum wasn’t surprised?”

“No, back when I sat down – you said being married to Nightingale was, and I quote, ‘terrifyingly the same’. The same as before, right?”

“Well, why wouldn’t it be?” Grant looked puzzled. “It’s not something either of us wants to make a big deal about. We've got work to be getting on with.”

“Because you shagged him?”

The flush, which had mostly receded, came creeping back. Poor bastard – at least when Sahra was blushing she was the only one who knew about it. “Can we not…oh, for god’s sake. Maybe. A bit.” Hah. Result. “I still don’t see what you’re getting at here.”

Sahra decided to try a different tack. “When’s the last time you ate out together? Before the wedding.”

“About a week before,” Grant said, after a few seconds’ thought. “Molly’s been getting into the molecular gastronomy recently, it’s been weird. We went for Indian.”

And then there was the thing where their nick had its own housekeeper, but Sahra wasn’t even touching that. Besides, it wasn’t relevant right now.  

“And this is a thing that happens? You two go and eat out?”

“Not like _that_ ,” Grant said. “But yeah, if we’re out on a case, or we feel like a change, or whatever. Sometimes. I’ve eaten out with plenty of people I’m not dating, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“You know how many times I’ve eaten in a restaurant with Stephanopoulos, when we weren’t off somewhere interviewing someone?” Sahra demanded. “Never, that’s how many.”

“Look, we’re a department of two,” Grant said, clearly aiming for reasonable. “And we live at our nick – which is _normal_ , you should see the place, there used to be hundreds of people there, there just…aren’t right now. Lesley lived there when she was – before. So yeah, we end up spending some time together when we’re not actually working. It does – it didn’t _mean_ anything, not for you guys to be getting up a betting pool on. I thought you were detectives.”

“What’s the last thing you did together that wasn’t work? _Before_ the wedding, before you ask.”

He narrowed his eyes. “We…let me think. We were both watching TV on Sunday. I mean, if by together you mean we were in the same room, I was mucking around on my laptop.”

“Will you listen to yourself,” Sahra said. “And I know you gave him his mobile phone for Christmas one year – I heard Stephanopoulos asking him how he’d picked that model. Do you see me giving my boss Christmas presents? No, you do not.”

“You don’t do Christmas,” Grant pointed out. “And neither does she, really. Doesn’t count.”

“What did he get you that year?” she asked, fairly sure she knew the answer.

“A magic-proof watch,” Grant admitted, shifting his left arm slightly. He was wearing it, of course. Yeah – Sahra had heard about _this_ one. Mostly because Carey’s mum worked at a jeweller and had apparently taught him to identify _really_ nice watches at thirty yards. When he’d laid eyes on this one he’d sworn out loud. Sahra had had to tell Grant that Carey had stubbed his toe, just to avoid suspicion. 

“An antique magic-proof watch,” she repeated. “Do you have any idea how much that thing is worth?”

“I think he had it already,” Grant protested. “It’s _practical_. Do you know how many phones I’ve gone through since I started this whole magic thing? I don’t want to start on watches as well.”

Sahra sighed. Time to wrap it up; she had work to get back to. “My point is. You live together, you voluntarily spend time together outside work, you get each other thoughtful and probably inappropriately expensive presents, you think that the only thing that’s changed now you suddenly had an arranged marriage is that you’ve shagged at least once, and you _don’t understand why people were betting on you getting together_.”

“But it wasn’t like that,” Grant said plaintively. “I mean – it really wasn’t. Or if it was, no-one told me.”

“But now it is?”

He looked down at his coffee. “Now it’s…a relationship I would like the opportunity to sort out for myself without being asked what I think about it _every five seconds_.”

The thing was, though – he was suddenly trying not to smile.

And, hah, _relationship_. That was enough to be getting on with, in terms of sorting out the betting pool.

“Fair enough,” Sahra said, standing. “And I hear you actually get a proper party for it this weekend? Something to do with the Thames?”

Grant looked a bit wild-eyed. “How are you even _hearing_ about all this? Yeah. Maybe. At the Spring Court. And if you don't know what that is I'm not telling you.”

“Great!” Sahra said cheerfully. “I think a few of us will be seeing you there.”

That took care of that, and she could get back to her actual job. She just had to email everyone and let them know the final result.

And she rather thought she’d be paying out that one to Zach Palmer – or rather, Lesley May, wherever she was – after all. 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] The Betting Pool](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11441730) by [knight_tracer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knight_tracer/pseuds/knight_tracer)




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